


The Lovers That Went Wrong

by JustJasper



Series: Summer To Your Heart [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Cheating, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 21:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14120835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: Trevelyan is everything Dorian wants, isn't he?





	The Lovers That Went Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> The finale, Dorian's POV. Enjoy!

“ **Do you want it? Do you want anything I have? Will you throw me to the ground like you mean it, reach inside and wrestle it out with your bare hands? If you love me, you don’t love me in a way I understand.” - Richard Siken**

They've made no formal commitment to each other, but he knows the Inquisitor is courting him, and he can't help the warm hope that swells in him at the thought. Maxwell is kind, and good. It was no surprise that it would reach a carnal conclusion, but that Max would declare his intent to court him afterwards was not something Dorian expected. Hoped for, perhaps. Longed for deep in his bones, maybe.

It feels improper to still be fucking the Bull when Trevelyan is trying so earnestly. So he stops, and the Bull makes no meal out if it. They're friends, and they've fucked, and it has always been good. It was unspoken that their _something_ would have soon had it's time. And if Dorian has decided Maxwell need not know of it, he can at least count on the Bull for discretion.

Dorian intercepts Max on his way back from training, pulls him out of sight into the shadows of the keep and takes in the sight of him, sweat still glistening across the breadth of his shoulders.

“Maker, you've no right to be so handsome.”

“Dorian,” the Inquisitor laughs, amusement clear as Dorian inches closer, breathes in the smell of him.

“Surely you can stand to extend your exertions a while longer?”

Trevelyan gives him a once over, with a wicked curve of his mouth.

“Perhaps later.”

Unexpected, though Dorian was only testing the waters.

“Supper this evening,” Max says. “Not formal, but alone. Would you do me the pleasure of your company?”

_This is more, Dorian._

It's been a long time since Dorian was rebuffed, but if Max isn't interested in an afternoon interlude, then that's fair enough. It would be a lie to say he doesn't think of the Bull, how very amenable he always was to a proposed tumble, but it's only a distant feeling. What Max wants, what he offers, what Dorian could have – he'd never thought it would happen in this life.

But oh, how he wants it.

“Of course.”

It's a dinner of honeyed pork and candlelight, and then kissing, wine in glasses they clink together and laugh.

Finally, after waiting all day, he gets Maxwell out of his breeches and takes him into his mouth, sucks him until he comes.

“Maker, Dorian, you're good.”

“Oh, I am.”

Maxwell makes a face when Dorian tries to kiss him, and Dorian laughs, and goes to the basin to rinse his mouth.

“Come back here,” Maxwell beckons, “let me return the favour.”

“By all means,” Dorian purrs, as he climbs onto the bed. “I've wanted your mouth all day.”

Trevelyan makes that face again. “Oh, no. not that. But I know I'm good with my hands.”

A twinge of disappointment, it can't be helped. But the dinner was lovely, and Mawell can't take his eyes off him, and it's not as if he's never been with men with various preferences, likes and dislikes.

He grins at Maxwell. “Prove it.”

*

After the Inquisitor returns from the Emerald Graves, Dorian's research goes missing, and he feels like he's been hit in the head with a vase. He's worked for months on it, stayed up late, lost sleep, forgone drinks for that bloody research. The progress he's made will be for nothing if it's been swept away into some forgotten pile, or condemned to the fire as scrap.

“Lord Dorian.”

“My research,” he says, spinning to look at Clemence, who's stopped short of him. “Where is it?”

“I've moved it.”

“Why?”

“The Inquisitor instructed me to move it to his room.”

Dorian scoffs. Clemence doesn't react, of course. Placidity.

“Thank you,” Dorian mumbles, because it's hardly his fault, only doing as bid. He does rather stalk to the Inquisitor's room, and finds him lounging in front of the fire.

“Why in Andraste's name did you move my research?”

“Don't be angry with me,” Max says. “I haven't seen you in weeks. I knew you'd be lost in your research all night if I didn't do something.”

“You know that it's important, don't you? You could have at least asked me.”

Maxwell smiles knowingly, as he gets up and wanders over. “So you could make me wait until your next breakthrough? I wanted to see you now.”

Dorian takes a breath. He's liable to say something he'll regret when annoyed; he might feel the spark of fire and magic at his palm too, but he's an adult, and he can hold his temper.

“You've seen me now. I know we've not seen each other in a while, but I really need to at least make notes so I know where to pick back up with the texts.”

“You can have it back after we've had a proper welcome back.”

He leans in and kisses Dorian, hands low on his hips, a movement away from his belt. Dorian pulls back immediately.

“You can't be serious.”

Maxwell laughs. “What?”

“You think I'm in the mood to sleep with you now?”

“It can just be quick. You've got that spell to get you ready, haven't you?”

Dorian laughs then, sharp and catching.

“We're going to chalk this up to tiredness from the road,” he says, effecting lightness, “my research is going to magically reappear in the library, and we'll try all this again fresh tomorrow, shall we?”

“Why are you being like this, Dorian?”

Is he being unreasonable? Later he'll wonder how he could even have the thought – no, he bloody well isn't.

“I'll talk to you later, Maxwell.”

*

His research reappears, though five books he was referencing seem to have gotten lost in transit, and the Inquisitor doesn't seek him out in the library the rest of the week.

Dorian tries not to dwell on how annoyed he is – the Inquisitor has a horrible job, stresses and strain he can't begin to fathom, and now that he and Dorian are more personally involved, Dorian is bound to see the less polished versions of him.

Makers knows Trevelyan isn't the only one to grow up a spoiled rich boy not used to not getting what he wants.

Still, after a week of being shut out, it's not exaggeration to call the whole experience miserable. He needs a good drink – he'd hoped Maevaris' promised gift of some favourable Tevinter vintage would have arrived by now, but alas.

He could apologise, and see where that gets him.

“Fasta vass,” he mutters, snapping his book shut. Apologising is conceding, it is guilt, as if he were wrong for finding fault with how Trevelyan treated him; if the Inquisitor wants to be childish for being told “no”, then Dorian shouldn't have to suffer it.

He wants more, and he deserves better than to be a convenient fuck at someone else's whim.

*

Months after Dorian stopped taking up his offer, the Bull's door is still unlocked.

The Bull looks up from his books as Dorian slips into his room, only watches as Dorian shucks his clothing.

“Oh, you sure know how to make a man feel wanted,” he says dryly. The Bull grins and crosses the room in a few paces, and kisses him fiercely. Dorian groans into it, overcome with the sheer presence of the Bull against him, huge and warm and gentle.

The Bull loses his trousers on the way to the bed, where Dorian falls blindly and is crowded by the Bull's bulk, powerful body held above him, big hand cradling Dorian's face.

“You and the Boss,” he says. Dorian frowns.

“You're going to ask me about him _now_?”

“Yeah. He's been courting you, and now I'm guessing you two are a thing.”

“We're not—” He knows the Bull wouldn't believe the lie. The Inquisitor is clever, and handsome. He wants more than sex from Dorian, wants things Dorian had never thought to entertain the possibility of having; has wanted that almost since they met. He's also made their first lover's spat a childish, stupid affair. “We're a thing. It's _casual_.”

“And you're here to scratch an itch he can't scratch?”

If Trevelyan is still being spiteful, then Dorian can be unkind.

“Can't, won't, it doesn't matter,” Dorian says. “I didn't come South to continue with mundane fucks.”

“Dorian—” the Bull begins, but Dorian interrupts.

“I'm here, Bull. By all means, don't fuck me if it compromises your morality. But I'm here, and I've been thinking about the way your cock feels inside me all day.”

The Bull hums, expression soft, and kisses Dorian. He winds his fingers into Dorian's hair, and he arches, shivers.

“Didn't think you'd be coming back, kadan,” the Bull says, and then as though trying to distract from the admission, he presses his fingers into Dorian's scalp and rolls his hips, sliding their cocks together.

It should only soothe an ache, please a craving, to come to the Bull's room once again, but instead it feels like quieting a storm that's been drowning him.

“Kaffas, Bull!”

Dorian lets the distraction do what is intended, and even between the rounds of fucking, he doesn't think of Maxwell for the rest of the night.

*

“I'm sorry, Dorian. I missed you, and I only wanted to spend time with you.”

Cabot is not looking at them, in the way of a barkeep pretending not to be absorbing every word.

“That was a poor way of going about it.”

“I know. I know I've been really silly about it.”

“You could call it that.”

“I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?”

The truth is that Dorian lost his anger to a good few days of fucking the Bull on and off. Knowing how much that would hurt Maxwell to know – it's taken the life from his ill feeling.

“I will,” he says. “If you wish to see me, Max, you need only ask. I'll make time for you, but the world must keep turning. And I have work to do, if we're ever going to have a chance of surviving this whole Corypheus mess.”

“Alright. Would you have dinner with me, then?”

“Of course.”

*

The library empties, and Dorian remains, pouring over his books alone. His mind has been slow all day, prone to distraction from his work. He thinks of Maxwell fucking him a few nights gone, but can't settle his thoughts on it. There are other bodies, other fucks that seem a more tempting playground for his idle mind.

Temptation has always been something Dorian has fought, even as recently as willing him not to return to the Bull after taking up with the Inquisitor. But there had been no declarations of faithfulness, no promises made by any party, and why should Dorian not indulge?

Of course Maxwell's well-meaning intentions to woo him had been made clear since they first went to bed; a desire demon couldn't have done a better job constructing such a perfect scenario to fulfil the impossibly romantic fantasies of his youth. But Dorian has hesitated to return such sentiment, and Maxwell hasn't pressed him on it. If it takes him more time when the world is falling around their heads, who could blame him?

So he indulges here; slips his cock out of the confines of his clothing and strokes himself leisurely, sinking into his favoured seat. He conjures the image of the Bull between his knees, holding his thighs apart just as hard as Dorian had asked for, lips around the base of cock, sucking hard enough to have Dorian shouting.

“Oh,” he sighs in the empty library, thumbing the wet head of his cock, “ _amatus_.”

He shocks himself with the slip, a single word he had kept himself from saying, a word he's foolishly given so much meaning to, almost forced past his lips as the Bull swallowed around his cock and pressed his thumbs hard into Dorian's thighs. That word and the Bull should not be so tangled. That word and Trevelyan should not be so distant.

He hears footfalls on the stone floor.

Dorian's eyes fly open, and spots Trevelyan, making his approach obvious. Immediately he feels himself flush, wondering how much he heard.

“Do you want me to watch, or help?” Max asks.

The offer is somewhat of a surprise – Maxwell hasn't been very forthcoming going to his knees; this is a departure, and for a brief flash Dorian uncharitably thinks won't be without cost. He should stop this here, fully aware that they are not aligned in desire and desperately need to discuss this, how ever much _temptation_ there is to indulge some more.

But perhaps it could be as simple as this.

“I could never turn down an offer of assistance.”

Maxwell takes a knee and wraps his lips around Dorian, who pushes all the thoughts of the Bull from his mind, thinking only on the curl of Max's tongue, his hands laying heavy on his thighs, his soft hair underhand.

*

The Bull does the same thing in training as he does on the battlefield – he lets them come to him. So after they circle, Dorian has to cross the gap and swing his stave at him, which Bull blocks with the handle of his blunted training axe. It's not as heavy as he likes, Dorian can tell from the way he overplays the motion, has to adjust to keep his swings where they need to be.

“Watch it, Chief,” Krem says, from where he's leaning on a fence.

“Thanks, Krem.”

“You know,” Dorian says, as he swings his stave and the Bull parries to block it several times over, “I get the distinct impression your men want to see the Altus wipe the floor with you.”

“Yeah,” Rocky says.

“Yup,” Dalish says.

Grim grunts an affirmative.

Dorian doesn't, of course; the Bull is the better fighter, the stronger man in a physical exchange, but it's a close thing, at least. They know each other, have fought side by side for almost two years now.

They know each other in other ways too, and if there's a little more contact than a usual spar, what of it?

By the end they're both breathless and sweaty, and the Chargers cheer for him.

Trevelyan's at the fence, clapping along. High off the spar Dorian saunters towards him, knowing the sight he must make, chest glittering with sweat.

“Enjoying the show?”

“You lost, Dorian.”

Dorian leans close to Trevelyan, lowering his voice.

“Would you like to go a round with me?”

“Later. Come to my room tonight. Wait for me.”

“Alright,” Dorian says, hand lingering at Maxwell's arm as he moves away. “See you tonight.”

It's not the first time Dorian waits until the small hours for the Inquisitor to return to his quarters, and it won't be the last.

*

The fire in Maxwell's room sends light dancing over the hearth – he'd been feeding it when Dorian came to his room. Not logs, from the look of the crinkled debris, but paper, bubbling leather of book bindings. Dorian's not particularly precious about books for all that he loves them, so he briefly wonders why it gives him pause that the Inquisitor might be using a book for kindling. He turns to Maxwell, across the table from him, looking at his dinner plate.

“I found an interesting tidbit in the genealogical records today,” Dorian offers, to fill the silence. “Apparently there's several links between the Avvar and certain Nevarran family lines, that married into the Imperium's aristocracy.”

Maxwell offers little more than a grunt, as he drains his goblet of wine.

“Well,” Dorian says, ignoring the flush of shame he feels at the lack of acknowledgement. “It's probably not pertinent to Corypheus, anyway.”

“Let's not talk about work, Dorian. We get so little time together these days.”

The conversation dies away.

After dinner comes sex, which shouldn't be a chore – and yet after conversation has dried up it's become routine. He feels no excitement for another round of foreplay Dorian might dare to call perfunctory, and a fuck that's over before it's really got good. That won't do.

“How about something different, hm?” he says, as they undress each other, exchanging kisses on the way to the bed. This part is always so wonderful, it ought to last.

“Like what?”

“I could fuck you. I've been told I'm rather marvellous at it.”

“No, I'd rather not.”

Disappointing, but—

“Alright, how about this – I'll use my many and varied talents to get you off, then we'll pass the time while you rise to the occasion again, and then I'll have you fuck me.”

Maxwell laughs.

“Can't I just do you? It all seems a bit involved. You like it, don't you?”

“Yes, of course. I'd like it better if it were a bit more protracted.”

“It's fine, I always make sure you get your end.”

“Yes, you do, but there's something to be said for a good, long fuck.”

“I'm tired, you know,” he says, pouting a little. “It's been a long day, I had to sit through meeting after meeting, and deal with Orlesian politics until my head ached. You know how busy I am. Can't we just keep it simple? Then you can go back to your spell research, or whatever it was.”

Maybe he does want too much. Dorian's not sure how well he masks his disappointment, or his embarrassment.

“Alright.”

*

“He asked me to share his room,” Dorian says, while the Bull watches him fix his makeup in his vanity.

“Trevelyan?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I'd rather keep my room.”

“Because you don't want to live with him.”

He meets the Bull's gaze in the mirror. There's no judgement, just the Bull sitting on the side of the bed, leaning back on his arms. “I—no.”

“But you don't want to break things off.”

There's no question that there is a _thing_ , that it is much more than the casual affair Dorian has been trying to convince himself of.

“I know you think I should make up my mind.”

“That's not what I think.”

“You can't possibly be happy being a dirty little secret,” he mutters, studying his pot of khol.

“Nah, but I've been that before,” the Bull says. Dorian's breath catches in his chest. “Not really into lying to the Boss like this, it's pretty crappy. But I'm not about to tell you what to do, Dorian. You need me to bounce this stuff around with, to scratch that itch, that's what I'm here for.”

“Is that what you want?” Dorian demands, turning towards him. The Bull shrugs.

“I want whatever you're comfortable with, big guy.”

Dorian could set the room on fire with how angry that makes him. He pushes himself away from his vanity with a loud scraping across the stone and rounds on the Bull.

“So you acquiesce to fucking me to satisfy some intrinsic need you have to be useful? How flattering! How noble!”

“What do you want me to do, Dorian?” the Bull asks, calm in the face of Dorian's sudden rage. “You want me to be jealous you're fucking us both, to be cut up that you're sneaking around on your lover with me?”

“Yes! Something remotely normal, perhaps!”

“I'm not going to make demands of you about anything, including about who you want to fuck. You want to screw us both, that's okay. You decide you want to stop coming around, that's fine too.”

“Are those the only choices?” Dorian snaps.

“That's up to you.”

“And it wouldn't matter to you if this,” he gestures between them, “was over, just like that?”

“If you want it to be over, you just say the word.”

“What, 'katoh'? You'd have me use the fucking watchword like this entire last year has been a simple bedroom game? Katoh, then. _Katoh_. Go, leave, get out!”

The Bull doesn't even look disappointing as he rises and leaves without a word, and Dorian throws his pot of khol at the door as it closes behind him.

*

The trip to Val Royaux is uneventful, save for Dorian wondering what it's for. The Inquisitor isn't forthcoming, so Dorian drops it, and lets himself wonder if there's a surprise in store. Val Royaux isn't a bad place, romantic, even, in the right light, but Dorian is sure he can stomach it for a little time together.

Of course, it's _not_ a good surprise.

“Inquisitor! This is exactly what I was hoping for.”

That all-too familiar voice, and that ugly mask. Ponchard is an unwelcome sight.

“What? Is _that_ why we're here? I said I wanted to do this by myself. I don't want to be indebted to anyone, least of all you.”

“I apologize,” Ponchard say, not sounding the least bit apologetic, “but that won't be possible. Do forgive me, Inquisitor, but when I heard of your... association with Monsieur Pavus, I could not resist. It's not coin I seek for the amulet, but influence. Influence you possess, which the young man does not. Provided, of course, you... desire the amulet? For your friend?”

“You refuse to sell Dorian his amulet just to get me here? Mission accomplished.”

“I am not attempting to manipulate you, my lord, I only wish equitable recompense. The League of Celestine is an organization of wealthy noblemen in Orlais. I would join, but I lack the lineage. If someone like you applied pressure, they would admit me. _That_ would be worth the return of the amulet.”

Trevelyan looks over. “What do you think, Dorian?”

“Leave the man be. I got myself into this, I should get myself out of it.”

Ponchard coughs lightly.

“Perhaps you should accept your friend's help, Monsieur.”

Dorian gives his best glare.

“Kaffas! I know what _you_ think, and he's not my friend, he's...” He catches Maxwell's eye, and baulks at the look he's giving him. “Never mind what he is.”

“As you desire,” says Ponchard. “Even so, that is the price. I shall accept no other.”

The Inquisitor nods.

“Very well. I'll do as you ask.”

“What?” Dorian says. “You're just going to give in to this cretin?”

“Do you want your amulet back?”

“I – yes I do, I simply—”

Ponchard does the only tasteful thing he's ever done, and cuts short a squabble.

“Much obliged, your worship. The moment I receive an invitation from the League, I'll have the amulet delivered. It's been an honour doing business with you.”

“Influence-mongering,” Dorian mutters, turning away before he says something worse. He can sense Trevelyan following after him, keeping step behind him. “I don't want to be in your debt. I don't want to be in anyone's debt.”

“You don't think—”

“I don't want to discuss it.”

“What is your problem? I'm getting you your amulet back, I thought you'd be grateful.”

“Are you doing it for me, or to hold it over my head?” Dorian spits, and storms off before the Inquisitor can follow him.

*

It is not the first thing Dorian has apologised for, in the last weeks. Since the incident with Ponchard, he's found himself doing so more and more. It's easier, to lay the blame at his feet and draw a line under things. It's easier not to think about it too much.

“I'm so sorry, Max. Last night I...I have no excuse, I wasn't even here. Sera invited me for drinks, and I _forgot_ about our arrangement. You must think me terrible.”

“Not really,” Maxwell shrugs. “Apparently forgetful, but you’re a good man, from what I've seen.”

“Believe me,” Dorian says, “there is plenty you haven't seen.”

He is terrible, for a partial untruth. He and Sera had drunk and eaten the tavern food, and the Chargers had been in the mix. So when Sera had retired to go chase one particular dwarf, is it so strange that he'd stay with the Bull and his men? He hadn't even thought of Trevelyan, in truth. He'd spent most of the night bickering with the Bull about Nevarran death rites and drinking shitty beer.

“Whatever sort of man you are, I love you.”

Dorian gapes at him for a moment, before he gathers himself.

“Well, who could blame you? I'm delightful.”

It's clearly not what Max wants to hear. He laughs anyway; the sound almost makes Dorian flinch. Since when did holding a conversation with this man feel dangerous?

“You are.”

“I am sorry, Max.”

“It's fine,” Trevelyan waves his hand. “Know a few ways you could show me how sorry you are, though.”

Dorian wants to scream, to lash out with tooth and claw like a cornered animal.

He smiles instead.

“I imagine you do.”

Shortly after, Dorian spits. Some small rebellion for the unrest he feels, on his knees to make up his perceived failing to Trevelyan in not loving him back.

Maxwell doesn't even comprehend the cruelty of it, as he strokes his hair, pouting.

“Aw, don't be selfish,” he teases. Dorian smiles and hates himself for it.

It would be simpler if he loved him. It would be simpler if matters of the flesh were of no consequence. It would be simpler if he didn't care about him at all.

*

The beef is tough but the vegetables are nice, a fresh import from Orlais. They mostly eat in silence, since Dorian knows that Maxwell isn't interested in his research until it yields results.

“Is this working?” he says, as he sets his wine glass down. Trevelyan looks at him until he's finished his mouthful of food.

“What do you mean?”

“Us,” Dorian says. “This all feels a little familiar. Not in a good way, mind; more like the relationship I witnessed my parents having. Silent dinners, no conversation.”

“You think we're like your parents?”

“No, that's not what I meant—”

“That's what you said, that we've become your parents.”

“No it isn't. But we don't talk any more.”

“And what of it? That's what a relationship is, Dorian. We love each other, we don't have to talk all the time.”

He wants to say _“we hardly talk at all”_ , but his brain has stopped on the revelation that in the stead of Dorian confession his love, Maxwell has assumed it.

“I know you haven't done this before, but you can't overreact. It's not like one of Varric's stories. It's nice, isn't it? What you wanted?”

Now? Dorian can hardly say.

“This is how it should be, you know. You should get used to it, Dorian. To be in love is a beautiful thing, to build a future together.”

A life stretching before him; he can't breathe for it.

After dinner a fuck, and means to make it a farewell. A fond memory, before he destroys Maxwell. But the Inquisitor fucks him and he thinks of the Bull. He tells Maxwell how to fuck him like the Bull fucks him, and he can't, won't. Maxwell is there, flush and handsome and sated, and Dorian closes his eyes and thinks of the Bull above him, about the bone-deep satisfaction of an orgasm the Bull has had a hand in, and it makes the joyless, disappointing end he comes to a little more bearable.

In the aftermath he pulls Trevelyan to him and kisses him, as sweetly as he can bear.

_Goodbye_.

*

The Bull was probably asleep, he thinks, and Dorian should probably have taken care not to have woken him. He is not so unselfish, and the Bull's door is still open. Under Dorian's conjured light the Bull blinks, sitting himself up.

“I know you don't care about me,” Dorian says as he climbs onto the Bull's bed, “but I need this.”

The Bull's gaze moves around his face, that one studious eye taking him in. “Why do you think I don't care about you?”

“You left.”

A curious tilt of the the Bull's head. “You ended things.”

“And it didn't even matter to you!” Dorian hisses. “I'm a spectacular but quite replaceable fuck, you've made that clear.”

“Shit, I haven't been clear at all,” the Bull says softly. “I didn't think letting you make up your own mind about this situation was going to get you fucked up like this.”

“Well, _I'm sorry_ for being fucked up.”

“Kadan, it did matter to me.”

He doesn't understand the word, but it makes him bristle with its fondness. “Don't call me that.”

“I care about you Dorian, you matter. Just because I went when you called it off, doesn't mean it didn't sting.”

“Then you should have told me that! Why can't you just be normal? _Want_ me to want you. Tell me to choose _you_.”

The Bull's voice is gentle, but unsteady. “It doesn't matter what I want.”

“Yes it does. If you want me, Bull, tell me. _Please_. Because if you don't want me, I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't fuck you, I shouldn't love you – if you don't want me, loving you is just a foolish thing, and I can't bear you simply being there for my convenience, if you don't want me.”

There is a lifetime of possibility in the quiet dark between them. A precipice of heartbreak, and of hope.

“Shit,” the Bull breathes, shaking for it. “Of course I do, Dorian. I want you so much.”

Dorian laughs weakly, though he feels like he could cry. How could he have ever imagined a sporting fuck would become this?

The Bull reaches for Dorian and he goes, climbs into his lap, holds his face as he presses their foreheads together. Dorian kisses him then, though he rather wants to punch him too for how frustrating he is. This man, a good, gentle, kind man he could keep taking to bed until the world ends. There's no telling what might happen if it doesn't.

Dorian pulls off his shirt and the Bull goes ahead and unlaces his leggings between kisses. The Bull palms Dorian to hardness, hands rough and skilled and without hesitation. He lines their cocks up between them, and Dorian rolls his hips, gasps against the Bull's mouth.

“What do you need?” the Bull murmurs. “What do you need that he doesn't give you?”

“Just,” Dorian breathes, and wraps his arms around the Bull's thick neck, “don't rush. I know it's nearly morning, but please, make it good.”

“Its not good with him?”

Speaking ill of a lover he's still bedding is crass. Trevelyan side-stepping his attempt to talk about his lack of fulfilment to request Dorian suck his cock is crass. Being left to wait in his room and sent to bed wanting is one thing, but to be made to feel ashamed for his disappointment...

“It's not.”

“You deserve it to be good. What have you been missing?”

Enthusiasm. Passion. _You_.

How to say that the Bull even asking what he wants is enough to outstrip Trevelyan?

“This,” he says, and rolls his hips, and presses their mouths together for another kiss.

*

He plans to meet with Maxwell in the evening to finally bring what has become a farce to an end. But he's sick at the thought, and instead of choosing a drunk's courage he takes the Bull to his room and gets entirely distracted with fucking him, being fucked, a series of attempted positions that have them laughing with each failure. He's not being kind, letting Trevelyan live in ignorant bliss for a while longer. He's not a kind man.

The Bull's body is huge and warm beside him, his soft cock heavy against Dorian's thigh, his blunt fingers teasing the hair below Dorian's navel.

“I'm am going to end things with Maxwell. I'm only being a coward about it tonight, tomorrow I'll do what I need to..”

“Yeah?”

“There might be repercussions for you as well as me.” He sighs. “If you don't wish to be there at the other side of this—”

The Bull leans down, and when the words fade from Dorian's lips, he kisses him.

“I'm not going anywhere, kadan.”

“What does _kadan_ mean?”

He already knows the answer. He's prepared to be wrong.

The Bull leans down, presses his lips to Dorian's chest. Speaks there, against his skin.

“My heart.”

“Oh, you terrible soppy git,” Dorian says, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

He pulls the Bull back to him for a kiss, scarred mouth soft and so gentle against him, another, until the intensity of the admission has faded.

“He's going to hate me.”

“Us,” the Bull says evenly.

“I've been utterly terrible about this. But he's—”

The threat of tears catches him off guard – he turns his face into the pillow, gives himself a moment, until he can bear it.

“If I stay,” he begins again, giving voice at last to this tumorous thing, “I think he might destroy me, in the end.”

“Shit, Dorian. If he's hurt you—”

“No, Bull. I wasn't lying when I said he would never, but it's still... wrong. There's something wrong with it all, and I don't want it. It shouldn't be this hard, when I know how easy it can be. It's easy with you. It's good.”

“It should be good. And if it isn't with him, you know what you've gotta do.”

“Yes,” he sighs. “Tomorrow. Let me have tonight free from being the evil magister that broke the Inquisitor's heart.”

“You want me to go with you when you tell him?”

He wants to say yes, sure it might make it easier. None of this is the Bull's fault, though. “I think he ought to hear it from me. I don't want to corner him.”

“Alright.” The Bull kisses him. “It'll be okay.”

“Maker, I hope so.”

The Bull kisses him again, scratches the short hair behind Dorian's ear. Dorian makes a noise akin to a purr as the Bull buries his fingers through the longer hairs, tilts his face up to chase the kiss. The Bull pulls away, and Dorian sighs happily in the space between their mouths.

“Ah, crap.”

Maxwell is standing in the doorway to his room. Dorian didn't even notice the sound of the door opening.

“Venhedis!”

He reaches to cover himself, as if covering their nudity can mask what the Inquisitor is seeing, as if it can spare him finding out like this.

“Max—”

Trevelyan slams the door behind him as he leaves.

“Crap,” the Bull repeats.

Dorian puts his head in his hands and groans.

*

“I need to understand this,” Trevelyan says.

It's the third time he's found Dorian in the library, demanding explanation. Dorian feels unable to deny it to him; Maxwell entirely misses the irony in it.

“Ask me, then. I'll be truthful, if that's what you want.”

“Oh, now you care about honesty? How convenient.”

Dorian, whose patience is wearing thin, sets his book aside. “Do you think I didn't try? Can you recall any of the times where I asked something of you, and you denied me without so much as an acknowledgement?”

He rather thinks Maxwell can't, because he sidesteps the question entirely, and proves Dorian's point in doing so.

“If it was that bad, why didn't you just leave me? Go to the Bull, have him fuck you like you were so desperate for.”

“Because I care about you.”

Trevelyan laughs.

“I do! I wanted what we had to work, you know that? I wanted that so much, Max. If I hadn't fallen in love with the Bull, I would still be with you, trying to make it work, and perhaps I'd still be fighting a battle I cannot win. Because I'm a fool, and you're a good leader, but there is nothing your life you'll compromise. I admired that, until I realised it held true for us.”

“I compromised all the time! I compromised when you wouldn't share my rooms, when you wouldn't tell me you love me, when you wouldn't go to bed with me. Even being with someone from Tevinter was a _compromise_ , don't you see?”

“No, I don't see!”

“My family doesn't approve of you because you're Tevinter, and I compromised my family name to be with you, because I thought you could love me back.”

“Blame for my actions, I understand. But do you expect to lay fault at my feet, that I couldn't love you?”

“Where else?”

“Nowhere, Maxwell! I won't be made to feel like this for not loving you. Would you have preferred I pretend? That I told you I loved you when I didn't mean it?”

“You could have meant it one day.”

Dorian looses a laugh that's mostly breath. “You would, wouldn't you? You'd have taken my lie and been happy in it. It never would have worried you whether it was the truth or not.”

“You made me happy, Dorian, is that so bad?”

“And you made me feel _wretched_!”

Thank the Maker the library is all but empty, only Leliana's ravens to disturb with their rising voices.

“Why didn't you tell me? I could have been better.”

“I shouldn't have to teach you how to treat the person you profess to love! I tried, over and over, to tell you it wasn't working.”

“You could have tried harder. I've not got the gift of _sight_ , Dorian.”

Trevelyan frame's Dorian's annoyance as though it's petty instead of deserved, like he has no real right to express it. The resentment is acrid bile in his throat.

“Oh, I should have just handled everything, then, I suppose. You were busy with the Inquisition, I ought to make sure our relationship was plodding along nicely. Just magically make more hours in the day, perhaps give up my research to make the time for us. I surely could have wanted less, had no need for conversation, no investment in shared interests, desired no substantial pleasure at your hand, then things would have been _fine_!”

“It's sex. It's all about sex. You sound like a—” Trevelyan snaps his mouth shut, as though Dorian might not have understood what he intended to say.

“Like a _whore_ , Maxwell? If it makes me a whore to want a modicum of fulfilment in bed, then so be it. To have a lover treat you like you're wasting their time every time you speak, to have no will to discuss your requests, your troubles—”

“If I was so bad, why did you stay with me? Did I _force_ you to stay? Why didn't you take responsibility and end things if they weren't working?”

Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose. “What answer would please you, Maxwell? You want to blame it all on me, but it wasn't just me. I've told you that I wanted things to work. I tried so hard, and it didn't work. I've said that I'm sorry that I hurt you, that I didn't treat you better, and I truly am. What else can I say to you?”

Maxwell doesn't stay to offer suggestion.

*

He expects to lose more friends over it than he does.

Cassandra won't speak to him, but he's sure that the Bull is taking her silence a lot harder than he is. Solas manages the dual feat of acting as though he is above such drama, while passing judgement upon them. Cullen politely declines his invitations for chess.

It is fair, he supposes. If this was a battle, there must be those that take sides.

Sera seems pleased now she can talk about their sex life without causing trouble, though he doesn't understand her curiosity about the mechanics of such things, given her preferences. Varric tests the waters with jokes about fodder for his novel, and puts his palms up in defeat when Dorian's look turns sour.

The world turns much as it had before, his actions of little consequence in their ultimate goal. They defeat a great evil, and celebrate while they can.

“Will you be going back to Tevinter?” Trevelyan asks. Sad, but not unkind. His anger tempered now, his hurt a little more distant. There is still no remorse in him, for the part he played.

“I've decided to stay with the Inquisition a while.”

“Would that have anything to do with Iron Bull?”

“It might,” he says, as gently as he can bear in turn. “You know how it is.”

*

“Come with me,” the Bull says, into the dip of Dorian's back.

“Where are you going?” He can't imagine wanting to move from this bed, especially after the bone-shaking orgasm he's just had under the Bull's tongue.

“Come away with me. Okay, with us. I've been thinking of moving the Chargers along. Got a few contract leads out of Antiva.”

“And you'd have me along, would you? An honorary Charger?”

“Not until my boys have voted on the title,” the Bull chuckles, kisses his way up Dorian's spine until he can crowd him against the pillow, pressing kisses into his hair.

“Of course.”

Dorian turns underneath the Bull, wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him close for a proper kiss. The Bull smooths one side of his moustache with a gentle thumb.

“I know you have to go back to Tevinter.”

“I do.” He tries not to sound sad about it. “I've been away too long. There are people there I owe a great deal to, and those gone whose affairs need my tending.”

“We could get you there. Come along, we take some jobs, and then we'll drop you at the border. The scenic route to where you've got to be.”

Dorian narrows his eyes. “The very scenic route, I imagine.”

“As much as you want, kadan.”

A part of him wants the Bull to ask him not to go to Tevinter, to stay. A part of him might always want that, but it isn't who the Bull is, and isn't that why Dorian fell so in love with him?

“Yes then. I suppose I'll allow you to escort me home, when it comes to it. Meanwhile, it would be nice to see Antiva again. Good wine.”

A life stretching out before him, and he feels like he can breathe again.

**"Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red." - Kait Rokowski**


End file.
